And The Nights, They Last Forever
by ImpossibleElement
Summary: He was damned and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Because you see, the great Sherlock Holmes was dead, kaput, finito, and now he had no other option than to roam the halls of this abandoned mess of a house —with horrible antique decoration— as a ghost.


**And the nights, they last forever**

Turns out, being dead is not as fascinating as Sherlock had anticipated.

Sure, there were benefits. He had always hated having to succumb to his body's needs. Eating and sleeping ever the dreaded chores he had to perform in order for his transport to keep functioning and continue to, well, transport his great intellect around. Not having to waste any time, nor energy on those tasks was one of the few upsides he could account about his situation. That, and the fact that he now could basically walk through any obstacle, be it furniture, walls and even floors, without any resistance whatsoever. But he was damned —in more than one way— and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Because you see, the great Sherlock Holmes was dead, kaput, finito, and now he had no other option than to roam the halls of this abandoned mess of a house —with horrible antique decoration— as a ghost.

He sighed as he saw the terrible storm outside through the paned glass. Violent thunder crashing down upon the earth around the house which he was not able to leave. He yanked his chains with him as he roamed the empty corridors searching for something to distract his idle mind, but found nothing of interest. He casted a weary glance at the big painting at the top of the opulent, curling stairs, as he made his path through the monstrous victorian manor.

He supposed it could very well be his fault —no matter how he would never admit it to John, if he could— for demanding the both of them investigated the strange happenings at the famous abandoned mansion at the top of the hill, said to be haunted by the most evil and cruelest of spirits. He had been so sure and so excited to be able to prove to each and every idiot on the yard how such a thing as ghosts did not exist and the assailant they were looking for was nothing more than an ordinary human with a violent streak, that he got careless, and said criminal jumped out of a hidden corner and murdered him before he even had a chance to say _'boo'._ His death came about him so fast that he barely had the time to register what had happened before he was already floating aside, watching his lifeless form being cradled in the arms of his best friend when the thought dawned on him that, as was his usual luck, he had just been killed. He was dead, and he had ended up as a bloody ghost of all things. At that moment of realization —after the shock of his horrible demise had been processed and stored inside a Mind Palace box labeled _'Do not open under any circumstances'_ — he felt he could sulk for all eternity, and given his situation, he just might.

At least he could find comfort in the knowledge that, ever since he became a haunting spirit of the house, he had not encountered any other creature like him, thus making his first deduction about the nature of the perpetrator of the prior crimes entirely correct. His current state notwithstanding.

As the hours and the days floated by him, he breezed through the usual things one would do at the face of their undeniable death. He discovered the extent and limitations of his abilities, he mourned the life he had lost and the people he would so terrifyingly miss, he raged and in a fit of despair threw every object on the surfaces off, sending them flying across the rooms. After that, he mainly just dedicated himself to float around and scare away any kids that dared entered the house on foolish challenges.

Mostly, he was just bored.

But not tonight, for tonight he saw a figure approaching the house. Huddled up, sheltering itself from the atrocious rain beneath a thick green jacket. A man on a mission, —for no one would dare go out in this horrid weather merely on a whim— a man carrying something under his left arm. A smile broke out over the specter's face, the first smile he had made since he was killed; because he knew that figure. He would forever know the figure of that man anywhere.

* * *

John hurried up, climbing the small steps on the front of the house, careful not to slip with the wetness the rain had left on them. He swiftly pushed the heavy oak door open and entered the house that to him was more haunted with horrible memories than any other phantom he could ever encounter.

Once inside, he collapsed on the main hall, panting from exhaustion and sobbing in sorrow when the flowers he had carried all this way reminded him of the reason why he had made such a ludicrous trip out in this weather. The truth was that he couldn't help it anymore, he was no longer able to fight the urge to be close to the place where he had died, to be close to _him_ in anyway he could.

Crystalline tears flowed from his eyes as he called out for the man he had lost and he so desperately wished to see again, even for one last time. It was in that exact moment when he felt a freezing sensation rake through him like a bloody dagger and, shivering, he lifted his chin to survey his surroundings. The second his eyes fell on the intangible figure before him he gasped and took a shocked step back. Before him, as if he were imagining him —and honestly, he could be— was Sherlock Holmes, in all his ethereal glory.

John closed his eyes to try to rid his mind of those images, yet when he peeled his eyelids once more, the figure was still there, with his coat flowing hauntingly out behind him like it used to do when he ran behind criminal, his complexion slightly blue at the edges and his abdomen with a wound that he had to remind himself not to look at any longer. There were some changes too, but this apparition's likeness to his dead best friend was uncanny and it was looking at him with utter confusion and complete surprise in those translucent eyes that he would never be able to mistake, and was sure no one —no matter how skilled a specter— could ever imitate. He stayed frozen for a few moments, utterly still, until the frighteningly pale face in front of him changed from confusion to hesitant elation, and it was then when John was somehow certain, for some reason the universe had decided to allow him to see Sherlock again, and he was not very keen on asking questions about how's or why's at the moment, not when he could fling himself unto the other instead, wrap his strong arms around the frail figure and never let go again.

"Sherlock," He sighed in relief, so mirthful of having with him the sole reason for his existence. However, once his arms reached, and his hands passed right trough the wraith-like body he realised something was not right. The detective had not uttered a single word and every time John attempted to touch him, he was left only with whisp-like tuffs of bright airs sliding through his fingers. The blogger raised his blue eyes to search the other's expression, but the man just floated backwards and shook his head, conveying that he had no real form. He wasn't tangible.

A new wave of sadness seemed to overcome John, mirrored only by the expression on the other's features. "I can't touch you." He stated dumbly, miserable tone laced all through the words. Sherlock shook his head again, and looked at him in expectation, still hardly believing he could be there. "How-" The blonde started, unsure how to finish his question. "How can you-". The detective shrugged nonchalantly, clearly having no clue either. Making that adorable face —of course if you could call a corpse _'adorable'_ — he always did when he didn't know something but for the _"life"_ of him didn't want to admit it. John's face softened a bit more at the eerie sight.

"What happened to your voice?" He asked then, scrunching up his nose in contemplation of the reason why this ghost was not able to communicate with him; considering how verbose his friend was before he died. Sherlock tiredly opened up his mouth to show him the emptiness inside. _'Of course,_ ' Thought John, right after he recovered from the terrifying image. ' _He has no vocal chords'_. He loved this man, but he was brave enough to admit this was freaking him out a tiny bit, no matter if that bit did not trump the elated feeling he could feel creeping up on him every second he spent with him, ascertaining him that this was really happening. He felt wrong footed on how to proceed with the strange situation.

"Jesus, Sherlock." He muttered, for lack of any other direction in which to go, because now that the questions were out of the way he failed to guess how he could learn to deal with the truth that Sherlock was as dead as they come, and also with the confusion his apparition caused between joy and fear. But the other just waved his hand in dismissal, as if it all were of little importance. John balked, but was distracted by the other gliding closer and examining the bouquet of soaking wet flowers he had brought for him. For his resting place. A small bouquet consisting of posionous budding plant arrangement —Sherlock's admitted favourites— and roses white as freezing snow —the detective's _actual_ favourites.

"Oh I-" Embarrassment suddenly hit him, making him mumble his words and scratch the back of his neck to hide the blush appearing over his face. "I got these for you." He extended his hand, but Sherlock just stared at him like he was the biggest idiot in the universe, and somewhere in the background a few china plates came flying out of a table and crashed with a loud hissing sound over the floor in frustration. "Right, of course." He accepted, frowning at the mess and walking over to a coffee table where he carefully deposited the bouquet over it. Sherlock, for all his seeming exasperation, appeared genuinely pleased to received them. His face so bright and so, dare he say, alive, that the blogger knew, were he not as dead as a rock he would have blushed too. "I came here because I thought that it would somehow bring me closer to you," He admitted. His hesitation gone in the face of the actual gravity of events. Once the person you love dies, and then decides to come back and haunt you, there is really no more room for concealing or pretending. "Turns out I was right." The doctor said, and the detective nodded, and his haunting smile broke again over his face, making the eerie blue light become softer and almost gentle. Not so terrifying anymore. "Oh my god, I miss you so much I just," Unable to figure out how to end that sentence he let it hang there between them, as Sherlock closed his eyes with passion and looked straight at him in devotion the second he opened them again. ' _Message received'_ is all the blonde could think to translate about that. _'I know'._

Sherlock then floated around him gracefully, as if he had always been made to fly among the humans while everybody else was stuck awkwardly walking, The soldier guessed if there was one single person in the world who could pull off being a phantom and make it look strangely delicate —and just a tiny bit horrifying— was Sherlock Holmes.

"Can you leave?" He asked, hoping for a positive answer, but completely aware that he would receive the one which he knew he wouldn't like. The ghost once again came to stand in front of him and rattled the heavy chains tied to his waist and extremities. "Your chains." The blonde surprised himself on how quickly he was getting accustomed to the new nature of his flatmate, as if it were nothing more than just another eccentricity of the madman they all knew as the only consulting detective in the world. "They are what keep you here."

The other didn't bother to acknowledge his statement, —typical— instead he turned around and motioned John to follow him up the stairs. The two of them ascended and Sherlock took great care to point and mime all the interesting bits in his impromptu tour around the premises. He had clearly had a lot of time to get acquainted with every nook and cranny of that old house, and it broke John's heart a little, when he thought just how alone the floating figure must have been all these days.

"What have you been doing here on your own?" He asked in a fit of fancy, hoping to understand by mere movements how his friend really felt about his unforeseeable situation. Sherlock made a gesture that looked very much like a sigh and flopped his arms at his sides as if to convey that was _it_ ; the entirety of what he had done all the time he had spent there.

They continued walking around for a while, the brunette motioning at things that could find his interest. And after that the both of them looked in silence through the monstrous window in the master bedroom. The storm had calmed somewhat, but that spooky atmosphere didn't seem to leave the house for very long. As they watched the world outside, John noticed the profile of his friend longing for a world of which he could no longer be a part. Strangely enough, to the blogger, Sherlock had never seem so hauntingly beautiful as he was framed by that victorian window. So much, it was enough to stop his compulsion to not reveal something. "I'm sorry." He admitted. At last he had let out what he had wanted to say all those times when staring at the other's grave appeared to leech out of him every bit of sanity he still possessed. The genius looked at him in confusion, clearly discombobulated by such statement. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you." The blonde explained. "I should have protected you."

The detective then gave him an expression so adoring and trusting that all of his misplaced guilt and shame evaporated away, as thin and whimsical as an specter being liberated. There was a fond look on his eyes that let him know it was all fine, and that his fault was the last thing that his death had been. John sighed in acceptance and followed loyally as the other started his descent once more.

The tour ended with the both of them standing at the main entrance, the sky roaring thunders and threatening to let down all his terrifying deadly rage upon them. The reason why Sherlock had brought him here was as see-through as the man himself. This was Sherlock urging him to leave now, while it still was possible to do so safely. It was him, caring for his wellbeing as he had surprisingly done since they had met, and the blogger was loath to leave him. However, he knew he had to, at least temporarily. John wanted to protest, but it was futile, if he wanted to make this permanent he had some things to procure first. So, resigned to his possibilities, and slowly reached out a hand towards the phantom figure, stopping short of going past the other's flesh, and the detective lifted his own limb, his airy hand hovering over John's in a devoted manner.

"How could I ever leave you?" The blonde wondered aloud. Taking note of every expression passing through the bluish face. "I don't care if you're a ghost, or a figment of my imagination, or a bloody fairy, I won't lose you again." The conviction in his voice threatening to crack both of them open. "I won't leave you here alone." With that he retreated and made his way through the door, reluctantly hasting his way away from the mansion and barely daring to look back at the flowing figure of his best friend at the edge of the house watching him go. "I'll come back." He whispered.

* * *

The next night Sherlock had almost lost all hope that John was ever going to return to this haunted house for any reason. He knew he had no right to not trust his blogger's word, of all people, but he found it difficult to hold on to such an utopian reality when he was physically not even able to hold anything, let alone keep John with him.

That is why, when the blonde finally made his back to the house the next night, he felt elated and giddy with anticipation. Not being able to talk to him or physically interact with him in any way was frustrating and heartbreaking, but the doctor's presence was enough to deter him from any raging thoughts inside his deceased mind. If John was here, he need not for anything more. A pulse included.

However, the assortment the other brought was in no way what he had expected. There were clothes and food and grooming products, yes, but the most interesting part of the heap of things he had carried here was of another matter. All esoteric in nature and quite frankly, conformed wholly of what the detective would have deemed idiotic during his living stage. Now, _now_ he could see the potential genius of what his friend had managed to come up with.

After all the lines had been drawn on the floor, and the candles had been assorted in just the right order —the incident with the argument with hand gestures about the proper and correct way to do it aside— they both stood there, contemplating their work and hoping for any of this trickery to work.

"Right-o." John said, clapping his hands in determination and anticipation for the outcome, looking around anxiously to make certain they hadn't forgotten anything. "Let's hope this works." The ghost rolled his eyes at the obvious comment, and the blonde chuckled exasperated. Well, if anything, dying had clearly not made the brunette any less arrogant.

"Shut up, you git." He retorted, to which the other just arched an eyebrow skeptically, despite it being a relief to hear the soldier sound so like himself once more. The detective hadn't liked the deductions he had made about his friend's state of depression when he first saw him again; and if this was lifting up his spirits, so to say, then it was a good thing, no matter how ridiculous. "And it has to work, so prepare yourself." He warned, and the genius, despite not being able to say it, was sure his blogger knew exactly what he thought about that.

"Don't give me that look, this could work," He chided, a smirk present over his face. "A never-ending seance," He continued. "At least until the sun rises," That was the plan: keep on summoning his soul back for as long as the night lasted and his spirit would have to dissipate, just to do it all over again the next sunset for the rest of eternity. The madman believed the scheme to be quite dubious in its out come, he doubted they would be able to keep that up for as long as they both wanted, but he was not about to give up now. He had no other options to choose from. John stalled a moment before stepping inside the red star on the floor, looking at him stubbornly, as if daring him to question was he was about to say. "And no matter whether this works or not, it changes nothing." He assured, and Sherlock would be lying if he said it didn't actually comfort him to hear that the blonde was not going to stop coming if they didn't manage to make his voice and tangible form come back. The specter nodded and the other sat down and began.

"I'm calling to the spirit that inhabits this house," He said, making sure to gesture all the needed movements and intonations. "If you can hear me follow the light and answer me."

For a moment, nothing happened, the ghost stared at him expectantly, suspended in air as if there were no way to bring him down again; but then his figure started completing up, like soft sketched lines being filled by coloured pencils. And he panicked slightly at having sensation on his limbs once more after weeks of being made of nothing.

"John?" Sherlock asked terrified, looking at his friend as if he had all the answers.

"Sherlock!" The other jumped up from the circle and approached him swiftly, ready to reach him as soon as possible.

"John! I can-" The brunette started saying, but was interrupted by the figure of a blogger being smashed against his body. Violently colliding with his new-found consistency in a paradoxically loving manner. Hugging him as they never had before his demise.

The kiss was unexpected for the detective too. But the deathly friction of the other's lips against his was as close to heaven as he had been in his entire life/afterlife, and he was not ready to give that up just yet.

After an eternity they broke apart, tears in John's eyes as he mumbled _'I told you we could do this,_ ' and _'you're here'_ over and over again as Sherlock realised that despite being utterly dead still, he could feel heartstrings being pulled; you would never caught him dead admitting he had missed that idiotic feeling. But he had.

"John," He asked, after a while. Making use of his returned ability to speak freely to his living partner. "You do realize that you just kissed a man that has been dead for more than 22 days, right?" He asked, to which both of them just bursted out laughing. Trust Sherlock to focus on that after everything that had happened since they had both come investigating here so many days prior.

"Yeah, okay." John admitted. "Maybe we will need a bit of ghostly mouthwash." He said, but the stupid grin couldn't be wiped away, no matter what his pale blue companion said at the moment.

"Will you keep coming back?" The brunette asked, in a fit of vulnerability, looking down at the ground as if he were ashamed of even asking such a thing from John, which the blogger, of course, found ridiculous.

"Sherlock, I didn't bring all this to do this once and leave," He explained and grabbed the other's very tangible head between both his palms. Looking into his haunting kaleidoscope eyes. "I did this so _you_ wouldn't leave," He said, conviction present in each sentence he uttered. "So you could stay. With me."

"Are you sure?" The ghost asked, as the doubt began to lift from his gaze, and his mind was instead filled with endless pictures of slow waltzing in the dark and glazing together around the mansion.

"Every night of my life, Sherlock." John promised, smiling as if this were the outcome that he had hoped for since the start. "And the rest of your afterlife too." He said, as the both of them silently vowed to become each other's apparitions forever more.

* * *

 **Author's note: And your heart will stay forever, when your last remains are few.**

 **Inspired by Gerard Way's new Halloween single Baby, You're a Haunted House.**

 **I hope you liked it, and if you did comment or go check out my other stories.**

 **Happy Halloween to all, and to all a good fright.**


End file.
